The Fight for the North
by SandyFoxy
Summary: As the Winter descends on the North, Tyrion and Jaime prepare for the greatest battle of all - the fight for survival. An army heads North to face the White Walkers and the occupants of Winterfell face their own struggle for survival.
1. Chapter 1  Preparing for the Fight

Tyrion walked across the yard and watched the boys practicing their sword fighting. The blunted swords, heavy enough to bruise, would not do permanent harm. And the boys were well padded. Unless one of them went for the other's head, he thought. Or mine. He turned away and sought out the warmth and peace of the library. It had been rebuilt after the fire and occupied a lower level in the Keep. Never a popular place, it was like a morgue when the castle was full of fighters. This only improved it in Tyrion's eyes. Let them fight – any fool could fight. Apart from me, he grimaced. His lantern led him in and he lost himself in the histories of the Iron Islands.

He was woken by the harsh clang of metal on stone – how had the sounds from the yard become so loud down here? He looked up into Jaime's face and realised it wasn't just the sounds that had penetrated his safe-haven. Tyrion scowled, emphasising his uneven features and the sleep-creases across his face.

"Come now Little Brother, no need to look like murder – a man shouldn't be asleep when there is fighting to be had." Jaime had always been happy to interrupt Tyrion's study, or sleep, with talk of fighting and tourney. Tyrion wondered yet again how he could deflect Jaime's enthusiasm for the sword-play into something more productive, then sighed as he realised he probably never could. Jaime simply didn't see anything that wasn't a woman or a fight.

"Has our sister no work for you today Brother?" The heavy emphasis on the word had no effect. Mention of Cersei's demands on her twin brother even now failed to raise a blush on his cheeks. Although Jaime was now aware that Tyrion had always known of his siblings' illicit relationship, he could never acknowledge it – even after his admission of his part in destroying the only girl Tyrion had ever loved. An act of honesty that had nearly ended any sibling feeling that remained between them. "Ah well, I'm cold - let's go and find something to warm me up". Tyrion hopped down from the hard bench, cursing the stiffness in his legs that had him staggering gracelessly to the door. They walked together across the now silent yard – the boys had been taken inside to hot spiced wine and cold meat and bread. A fighter's feast in these days of rations. Tyrion was happy to settle down on a bench with a full plate and a mug of wine whose scent made him think of the warmth of Dorn – especially Serena, the warmest of all. He barely spoke to Jaime who, although beside him, was engrossed in final details with Theon Greyjoy. Tyrion, felt his mood sink as the evening wore on and he glowered around at the young men, so full of life. It was as if he was the only person who could see death approaching like a wolf at the edges of the light. Finally he got up drank a silent toast to the hall and stalked out on stiff legs to a cold bed and a night short of sleep.

Winter had come.

The saying, so easily spoken by all the Starks, had become reality. Those who had only known the snows of summer were astonished when snow fell on snow for days on end, and weeks passed when the cold only got harder never less. Stores had long been put by for the hard times to come, but few animals could be kept in the enclosures of Winterfell that remained unfrozen. The seat of the northern Kings was blessed with its own warmth, like a beating heart pumping warm blood - coming miraculously in the form of hot water bubbling up from below the rocks. Still, many animals had to be killed. The last weeks while the freeze turned the outer walls white had been spent in slaughtering livestock – their cries screeching through the castle and making the children weep. But this was the sound of survival – the meat, blood and skins they provided would keep the occupants alive through the long, bitter winter – they hoped. The meat was dried. Cut into strips and strung out on racks, where they were held in place with small spikes of wood. They could be seen blowing like bloody pennants in the deadly cold winds that swept down from the surrounding mountains. The winds that felt like they had come blowing straight from beyond the Wall. After a couple of days the meat strips were brought down and packed into sacks. Stiff as wood, they would keep indefinitely so long as they remained cold and dry. The blood was kept liquid by stirring constantly for half a day while it cooled. Then mixed with dry-baked bread crumb and made into the hearty blood-sausages that would feed a soldier or a child. Boiled or roasted, even the most timid of diners would devour them once the cold bit.

The Maesters, a handful of them having collected at Winterfell before the Winter came, had laid claim to the finer skins and had set some of the children to scraping and stretching them ready for making into parchment. Records were already being kept of stores, storage methods and the changes in the weather. Many could not understand why they were bothering – the next winter would be many years after they had all died anyway. Tyrion knew why – he had helped the young Septon, Sam Tarley, to find all the texts they could from the previous winters. Survival required planning and planning required information. Even the ballads could give some clue that may be the difference between surviving and dying. Tyrion counted that one of the happiest times of his life. Learning, planning and putting those plans into place. All the swordplay in the world would come to nothing if they starved to death or froze in their beds. And the end of Winter may be the worst time – as food stores ran out and the Spring crops not yet ready to harvest. Foraging might be the difference between a living or dead Winterfell when people travelled North again. They would need to learn.

Jaime was restless; a man could only do so much practice before he needed to kill someone. And the younger soldiers needed to get out and do something useful before the regular fights in the mess ended in murder. He had worked with Theon Greyjoy to build up a fighting force, but they were untried and largely oblivious to the real dangers of the Wild and the Cold. Since the Winter came, it was as if the Wall could not hold the Cold back. It had swept over the wall and down the still-green valleys in a matter of days, like a dam overflowing after too much rain. The freezing air had killed all those who chose to stay and brave it out and the land would be fit for nothing but White Walkers, wolves and elk until the thaw came. Tyrion would not be going with them and Jaime realised he would miss his brother. The wit that so often infuriated him was familiar and almost comforting in the changed world he inhabited. His sister, no longer Queen, was an embittered woman who found comfort only in the almost animal rutting she and Jaime engaged in whenever they found a private space. But this had become almost an impossibility since the castle had filled with the young men hoping to become famed soldiers and saviours of the Seven Kingdoms. Jaime would be leading them along with Theon Greyjoy. The thought left him relieved, instead of bereft. He was done with her but could not find a way to break away without leaving the castle entirely. And Jaime was more than ready to leave.

When Theon and Jaime set the day for leaving, the level of activity in the castle ratcheted up a notch. The cooks and kitchen staff prepared a feast for the young men. No-one spoke the words, but they knew it was unlikely many would return, and fewer would return whole. The young women, from the lady's maids to the lowest scullery girls made sure that every man left with a memory of a loving body and a hungry mouth to keep them warm in the wilderness. Even the ugly ones, men and women both, had smiles on their faces over the days before the parting. How many babies would come from that parting gift no-one knew, but it would be more than a few.

Tyrion did not indulge, and he could not fathom why. He had been the hungriest of lovers since the gathering at Winterfell. The whorehouse outside the gates had been blessed with his coin on an almost daily basis for months. Although, truth be known, sometimes it was just to get away from the clanging of metal and to sleep late into the morning. A couple of days before the feast, watching the carts being packed, he understood why at last. He was not going. He would not be fighting the White Walkers, risking his life to save the North, and the Seven Kingdoms from the winter menace. He would be safe at Winterfell, counting beans and writing history from the outside of the fight. He cursed and kicked hard at the post he was leaning against. A mistake. The cold had frozen it to the hardness of steel and he cursed even louder and hopped about clutching his foot. The stupidity of the kick at first infuriated him, then suddenly he was overwhelmed with laughter. He was jealous of Jaime – he felt like a 10 year-old again. But this time he could see his young self through the mirror of years. He may not be a fighter, but he was damned good at what he did. And he was going to keep these people alive. Those children that would come may never know a father, but they would live and grow. Not just because brave men went out into the Winter carrying their Dragonglass weapons and fought unnatural beings, but because brave people stayed behind and kept Winterfell alive. Me, brave. He thought, laughing even harder. Until the people loading the carts turned and looked at him wondering what was going on. Tyrion stood up straight and went to find a pretty little scullery maid he had noticed a few days ago. Not all the babies would be fatherless.


	2. Chapter 2 Jaime faces Cersei

Jaime knew this was going to be a hard meeting. His last moments alone with Cersei. He put it off as long as possible but the hot-eyed glances she aimed his way got angrier and angrier as the evening wore on. He rose, telling Theon he needed some air and walked past Cersei without a word and out of the hall. The stables, he knew, would be busy with final preparations, but the dry foods had already been loaded on the carts so the storehouses at the back of the keep would be deserted.

The doorway threw a broadening patch of light across the cobbled yard and he paused at the edge of the light to see if Cersei followed. She did, of course; her light steps faltered until she saw his shape in the distance. He span away from her and strode past the stables and the new pen that held the milk cows and made his way to the back of the keep. He did not want this to take longer than he could help. The faint footsteps followed him light a ghost padding at his back but he did not glance behind.

This storehouse held the dried beans and peas that would be the staple of the castle's food for the months to come. His swift prayer to the Gods that the Winter lasted no longer than the food was futile – but he made it anyway. The door closed and a beam of light threw Jaime's shadow across the wall as Cersei uncovered the lantern. He turned as she placed it on the floor. "Cersei …" Her arms were around his neck and her mouth hard on his before he could say more. Her need was overwhelming and he pushed her off, too roughly he knew. The vicious slap that earned him stung like a face full of bees and he held her wrist to halt the second blow. He hoped she would not use the other hand as he would have to strike her to fend it off. His one-handedness again driven home to him. He knew she was hurting but he would not, could not, take punishment for her pain.

She glared into his face, full of anger, pain and humiliation. After a long moment, held in Jaime's hard grasp, her fury collapsed and she crumpled to her knees a sobbing wreck. Hugging herself as if she feared she would fly apart she sobbed out the name of her murdered son "Joffrey, Joffrey". It seemed to mean nothing to her that he was Jamie's son too. But then that had always been the case, and anyway Jaime could never have acknowledged him as his own – not only a bastard but one born of incest would have no honour or life, and most importantly would certainly never rule a kingdom. That was all dust now, of course, with Robert's natural son sitting as King. How he had got the support he needed to gain the throne – a bastard blacksmith with no experience or influence at court, he could hardly imagine, but Jaime had to live with it. Maybe he was well to be out of it.

Jaime squatted in front of Cersei and waited for the tears to abate. When she finally wiped her face on her sleeve and looked up, his heart went out to the child she had been – a desolate look haunted her eyes and more tears threatened. But if he weakened she would have him in her power again. "You should go south, Casterly Rock needs to be strengthened and you should be there to command the work". His voice was kind but as firm as he could manage. "I want to be with you – take me with you – I need you". Cersei must have known her demand was impossible – was she going mad with grief? "No, and if you stay here you will die with the rest when the food runs out." Her shock at the blunt refusal, not softened with regret or a shared grief, silenced her. She stared up at her lover/brother for long moments as if she had never really seen him before and, finally, shrank back from him.

Her rise, tired and slow, took her almost to Jaime's height and she looked him straight in the eye. "Farewell then, brother. Take my love with you, although you clearly no longer need it." Her voice was flat and only the slightest tremor betrayed her emotion. She kissed him chastely and, turning, walked out with as much Queenly grace as she could summon.

The sigh that Jaime let out was eloquent with his relief and he leant against the post for a moment. That was easier than I expected, he thought as he stepped toward the abandoned lantern. His heart went cold – too easy. He grabbed the lantern and ran out after his sister. She was out of site already. He cast about the building but saw no sign of her. So he headed back to the hall. A figure emerged from the stables and he heard Theon's greeting. "Jamie, is Cersei alright? She didn't seem to hear my call just now." Jamie changed direction and headed for him "Where did she go?" He grabbed Theon in his agitation. "Down towards the Wierwood – funny that, she's always avoided the place. She told me it unnerved her". Jaime barely heard the last as he ran full speed across the yard.

The silence in the Wierwood had always felt strange but now it was oppressive. The warmth from the pool had created a low fog right through the trees leaving them seeming to float on a sea of nothing. Cersei felt numb as she walked towards the pool – neither cold nor warm. Even the aching sadness she had lived with seemed to be dulled, not gone but covered with something else. The pool emerged from the fog almost too late as her slippers soaked up mud from the edge. She looked around her and saw, as if through a shroud, the faces of her father, Tywin, her son, Joffrey and even fainter, the sleeping face of her first-born, Robert's only legitimate child, who did not survive infancy. She reached out to them; her fingers could almost touch Joffrey's sweet, smiling face. Almost.

Jaime's last sight of his sister alive was as she stepped into the wierpool. He could not see the water surface and it was as if she sank into a bed of cloud. Her movement accompanied by the slightest susurration of water as it parted to accept her form. He ran to the edge and waded in – desperately trying to find her with his one good hand in the warm water. How could he not find her? The water was not very deep anywhere, not over head height at all and it wasn't flowing. Where was she? It was as if the living water had taken her away. Terrified, Jaime leapt out of the water and knelt on the side as the grief closed in on him and he gave himself up to his pain.


	3. Chapter 3 Tyrion finds his joie de vivre

The passages through the heart of the Keep seemed filled with the noise and bustle of activity even when they were empty of people. Tyrion wondered how it would feel once the soldiers left. Probably only the sound of weeping would be left. The thought left him feeling depressed and he hurried through the stone corridors down to the laundry. It was in the bowels of the keep where the water had been ingeniously tapped to provide for washing. It occurred to him to see if he could find out how that had been done some time soon – but not yet. More pressing matters were on his mind.

As he rounded a corner, the space opened into a large room, misty with steam. He saw a handful of girls, including his chosen bed-mate, working at a table. They were sorting cloths and giggling about something. His step faltered, unsure what to do. Here she was and he could command her to come to him but the only time he had tried that he had felt like a fraud and a bully. The girl had obeyed of course, he was a Lannister whatever his deformity, but his desire had evaporated at the look of scared obedience on her face. He never did it again.

They had seen him and all turned to look at him. Kicking himself for not having found out her name earlier he strode, as well as he could stride, up to the group and singled her out. She looked embarrassed but not disgusted – that was a start at least. The others nudged each other and whispered. That was hardly unusual and easy to ignore. "May I speak with you, girl?" His politeness really confused her and she simply nodded, blushing even over the flush caused by the heat of the laundry room.

He led the way as they walked a short distance and the noise of activity returned and offered some privacy at least. Even a man inured to rejection did not need to experience it again in front of an audience. He asked her name and she curtsied awkwardly as she answered "Marriet, my Lord". "Do you know who I am?" She looked like she was about to faint as she replied "Lord Tyrion of the House Lannister" The last spoken in a whisper that spoke of fear. His heart sank. Damn his family for making his name such a terror to a young girl, as if his stature and face weren't enough to deal with. He knew he could charm a woman with his wit and believed this girl, Marriet, was no different. But it would take some effort on his part. No matter, it was a challenge and he enjoyed measuring himself against intellectual problems – which is what this was for the moment. How to teach this girl that he was a man first, a dwarf second and, for her, a Lannister last.

"Will you come to me and talk with me? Just talk, I have a fancy for conversation tonight." It was obvious that she assumed that he intended far more than conversation and was afraid. "If you would rather not you may go back to work, no harm will come to you. But I would very much enjoy your company for a little while." She cocked her head on one side and looked at him uncertain. "Why?" A reasonable question, and one impossible to answer with the truth. The truth was that he wanted her and intended to charm her into bed. To say so would be honest but she would run like a scared rabbit, or worse, comply and weep. Tyrion compromised with a half-truth. "I like the way you laugh and I am lonely for the pleasant company of someone who will laugh at my jokes instead of my face." She smiled a little at that. He had seen that his face did not disgust or scare her – it was just his damned name. That made her different enough to be interesting even if she hadn't had such a neat figure and open, enquiring gaze.

"You know where my room is? Come there in an hour". She nodded, blushing again and turned back to her companions, who were obviously agog. Tyrion ignored them but took a moment to enjoy the fluid way Marriet walked away from him. He left before he overheard their chatter. He knew it would not be flattering and he only hoped they didn't scare her away from him with imagined stories, or the truth, of his family's treatment of lesser beings. His interest, and desire, had been roused by their conversation and he didn't want to sleep alone tonight.

Tyrion collected a flagon of wine and some sweet cakes from the kitchens on his way through and ordered a scullery boy to bring hot water to his room. "And make it quick; warm and soon is better than hot and later." Surveying his room he realised, rather too late, that it was a mess and needed the rushes replacing on the floor. He had been neglecting his surroundings lately and the servants had been too busy with other preparations to do their normal duties. He cleared the two chairs he had obtained for his comfort and straightened the furs on the bed. It would have to do. He knew most of the servants, especially the lower levels, had no room to call their own and few even had the luxury of a shared bed, so this would suffice.

Rather more than an hour passed and Tyrion was ready to believe Marriet's nerve had failed her. He was saddened as well as disappointed, especially since he didn't feel he would be good company for himself this night. He had washed and tried to make himself look more presentable than was usual. Never sure if it made much difference. He sighed and turned to his books, carefully placed on the table and selected a treatise on the history of the Northern families and poured himself a large cup of wine. He was sitting reading it when Marriet opened the door quietly and stepped in. Her arms were full of cloths and she looked both terrified and embarrassed. "They said to bring fresh sheets." She managed to stammer out. Women are the cruelest beings! Angry, Tyrion realized the others had been tormenting her with lurid tales and then sent her up to her fate armed with bedding to have it carried out on. "Put that lot down, and come and sit with me." His smile was lost on her as she manoeuvred the sheets into a pile on a side-bench. But she moved to him without too much hesitation and sat on the edge of the hard chair as if ready to flee in a heartbeat. Tyrion relaxed back into his cushioned seat and hoped this would help her to relax too. "Tell me about yourself, Marriet, have you lived her all your life?" Marriet shook her head. "My family sent me here when the cold started. They said they couldn't feed all of us and I was old enough to work. I haven't seen them since." The sadness in her eyes made Tyrion's heart hurt. They were certainly dead if they hadn't made it to Winterfell by now. He reached forward and took her hand. She flinched but did not pull away. "I am sorry child, I can only imagine what it is to lose a loving family." That was true enough, he had never known his mother and his father had hated and despised him even more than his sister did. And he had killed his father. Better not mention that right now, he thought grimly. Her eyes glistened with tears, but they did not fall. She had probably cried herself out more than once already.

He tried to cheer her with tales of the court, not the formal occasions; he had always found them unutterably dull. But the capers of the court children as they ran rings round their Septa and tried to avoid their lessons by hiding under the stairs sharing stolen kitchen scraps. When she started to laugh at his stories he knew his efforts were not wasted. Her laugh was natural and light and warmed his tired soul. He hadn't realised just how diminished his spirit had been lately. Can't be just the lack of bed-play, he thought. But it's a dark time and any comfort is welcome. He had offered her wine and she had looked at the flagon like it contained poison so he suggested he dilute it a little with the fresh water that had been brought up with the hot. She was sipping her watered wine and he was glad she did not feel the need to deaden her fears with too much of it. As she relaxed she looked about her and her eyes fell on the books. "What are they for?" Her innocence of knowledge stunned him. "They are books, they contain knowledge that people have known in the past and that we can now read." She was obviously impressed, reaching out to touch the worn leather binding of one of them. That's interesting, thought Tyrion. Most people's eyes glaze over at that point. "What knowledge?" He indicated the books; "The history of the family here for the last 20 generations, the methods for storing dried beans and peas, how to cure warts and where Dragonglass comes from."

She was laughing and Tyrion looked at her surprised. "Ageta in the kitchen knows all about storing beans – you should just ask her." "Maybe I will, later" Tyrion pushed himself off his seat and went to Marriet. He took her hand and she stopped laughing but there was no flinch this time, just a steady gaze awaiting his next step. He led her to the bed and climbed up. "If you wish to lie with me, join me. But if you would rather not I will not force you." Marriet's hesitation spoke volumes and Tyrion found he was holding his breath. Did this matter so much to him? Her rejection of him was going to hurt. After a long moment she moved onto the furs. She wouldn't look at him, shy rather than repulsed and Tyrion felt his desire grow. He schooled himself not to rush and so spoil the pleasure to come.

They sat in silence for a moment, and Tyrion realised she would not act without his guidance. He removed his leather jacket and moved to sit beside her. She glanced at him briefly and her eyes were still scared. "Don't be afraid, I will never hurt you." He prayed that was true. His fingers brushed her bare arm and he saw goosebumps rise from the touch. He leaned toward her and kissed her shoulder, her scent that of the wash-house, clean and damp, and she turned her gaze on him. Her smile was hesitant but real and Tyrion was emboldened to untie her shift. The coarse fabric fell from her shoulders and she held it up against herself. No matter, thought Tyrion, time enough yet. He was enjoying the contrast between Marriet and the openly wanton whores he was used to. His clothing was definitely getting in the way now and he pulled away from her and stripped down to his undershirt. It hid almost his whole body which he was always uncomfortable showing. Even with his favourite, Ros, he had made sure the thin blankets were to hand for covering up. She watched, fascinated, and he felt her gaze on him. But it was not hostile, just interested, curious about his difference from other men. Other men, had she even known any man before him? The thought rose unbidden and he drove it away. Kneeling beside her was easier, he was used to making the best of his size, and he stroked her hair and her neck enjoying the soft skin against his fingertips. She moved, exposing more of her neck, obviously enjoying his caress. He lifted her face to his and this time his kiss was for her lips. Her eyes flew open and met his gaze as he broke the contact. He stroked her face and whispered her name. She took the initiative now, her hand caressed his scarred face and her lips sought his as they lay back into the furs.

He leant up on his elbow and looked at her, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, her breathing had deepened. She opened her eyes and looked at him "I displease my Lord?" She looked worried and slightly disappointed. "Not at all Marriet, not at all" Tyrion's smile was warm and reassuring. He moved up level with her and leant over to kiss her, her hands reached for him and found too much shirt in their way. She started to push it out of the way and after a second's hesitation Tyrion helped her and hauled it over his head. She followed that with her own shift. Their lovemaking was a revelation to him. She was inexperienced, but also clearly enjoyed it - a fascinating combination.

Afterwards, once they could both breathe properly, they talked. He told her about his fist wife, and how that had ended with her destruction. She was scared by that but he soothed her and swore he would never let anything like that happen to her. The responsible person had died with a cross-bow bolt through his belly, life had changed now and Tyrion would fight for her. She told him of her family and the soldier who had taught to enjoy his touch, but who had not returned from a patrol five months ago. She had wept because he had not even left her with a child to remember him by. But she looked relieved and told Tyrion she was glad now because a child would have suffered in the coming winter. "What if you get a child now?" She smiled and answered simply "I have you." The childlike trust in that simple sentence made Tyrion feel at once proud and terrified. He assumed he must have left at least some of his whores with a living child, but he had never been sure. He certainly had never had any responsibility for the welfare of an infant. We will deal with that if it happens, this girl, no – this woman, is worth it.

Tyrion woke as sun hit his eyes, he could not see, but he could feel the furs next to him were cold and empty. Through the night, he and Marriet had held each other, talking and caressing each other. They had made love again in the depths of the night and they were both more than half asleep when they finished and held each other close. But now she had gone. He felt bereft but lay there recalling the night and enjoying the scent of her on the bed clothes and on him. Eventually he rose, washed and dressed and went in search of breakfast.

This was the day before the soldiers would leave. The few final preparations were being done and the farewell feast would be tonight. Theon and Jamie had done a good job of organizing the men and equipment but there was always going to be last-minute jobs, a repair here or a lost bag there. There was enough bustle to mask the false note of panic – almost.


	4. Chapter 4 Cersei is gone

Tyrion watched as a knot of people emerged from the direction of the Wierwood. They seemed to be carrying a long chest. No, not a chest, a door; removed from its hinges and used as a stretcher. Someone had been hurt. Then he saw Jaime, following behind the stretcher – he looked like a man lost to the world. White-faced and trudging along unaware of the people around him. So who was on the stretcher? Tyrion hurried forward and stopped the little procession. He knew, even without lifting the wet shroud, that this was Cersei. "What happened?" he demanded of the young Maester Sam Tarly – one of those carrying the stretcher. "We found him by the pool – he doesn't respond, like his mind has been taken. We found her floating in the water." He looked terrified but Tyrion trusted him so he left Cersei to Sam's care and went to Jaime. Jaime did indeed look like a man who had left his senses behind. "Jaime, what happened? Jaime!" Tyrion grabbed his coat and shook Jaime hard – he paused his trudging and looked down absently at his younger brother. "She walked into the water – just walked. I couldn't find her". Tears started, and Jaime seemed to collapse within himself somehow. The cold yard was no place for this. Tyrion grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the hall.

Slumped against the wall, the cup of hot wine untouched in front of him, Jaime told what he had seen. His voice dull and flat, his eyes were full of pain. Tyrion felt like his world had turned over. Cersei had been his adversary for so long. She would never look on him with barely disguised disgust – ever again. He should be happy. No, he should be ecstatic – Cersei was dangerous, vicious and often unpredictable. Allowing Joffrey to order Ned Stark's execution was a prime example. But he felt, what? Loss, grief? Certainly pain. He looked over at Jaime and knew that his brother, at least, was free of her at last. Leaving for battle was a physical removal, but now there could be no going back. Tyrion wondered what would change for Jaime now.

Sam had them lay Cersei out in the vault. She had no more use for warmth and she needed to be cleaned, wrapped and laid to rest. He had them strip her, which they did with reverence and care. Her body was that of a woman. After four children she was no longer so young and lithe, but still beautiful, and the pain of her loss had been smoothed from her face. Sam washed her gently and at the same time checked for marks that might give a clue to her death, As he turned her onto her side water gushed out of her mouth – she drowned then, he thought, just as Jaime said.

Theon Greyjoy made sure the final preparations were underway, left them to it and went in search of Jaime. He found him in the hall, silent and pale with the Imp. Theon had never liked Jaime's younger brother, never trusted him. He was too clever by half. Which meant simply that he was more clever than Theon, who was a fighter at heart. He had always hated and mistrusted the Lannisters, the people of the Iron Islands mistrusted everyone outside their own lands, and many of the people inside. But now he knew they must combat the threat from the North together. He was pragmatic enough to accept that he needed to work with Jaime, even with enthusiasm. But the Imp? There was something wrong with a man so deformed acting like he was a real Lord like Jaime and being just too clever. Nonetheless he approached with courtesy – his training at Winterfell had not gone amiss. "Jaime, they are finishing up. We will be ready to leave before first light." Jaime didn't seem to hear but finally raised his head and focussed on Theon. "I will be ready." This time he took his wine, cold now for some time and downed it in a couple of gulps. Then he stood and walked out. Theon and Tyrion looked at each other."I trust you will care for my brother once you leave. He will need to keep busy." Theon glared down at the little man. "I know what it is to lose family." The look in Tyrion's eyes stopped him, he had lost family too, Theon had forgotten that. "I will look out for him." Tyrion nodded, "I thank you."

The cold air in the yard started to penetrate Jaime's fog of pain and he knew he must put this Cersei's death aside for a while. He was a soldier – he had been a White Guard – he was capable of leading this army even in his grief. He went and checked the preparation of the horses and the armour. It was all just about done, the animals alert and seemingly aware that a great action was about to begin. He stroked his own horse, ruffling the mane and forelock. The animal's sweet breath and body heat comforted him a little. He rested his forehead briefly on the warm neck.

The rest of the day was spent in farewells, with many tears but no hysterics. And as the feast-time approached the soldiers and officers gathered in the hall. The servants delivering trenchers, flagons of wine and great dishes of meats and bread. It was not so thoughtless a waste as it looked. The meats being served were those that could not be stored so easily, the offal that would not last even in smoked sausages and the trimmings cooked into thick stews. But there were also some large joints too to carve into.

Tyrion looked for Marriet but didn't see her, assuming she was working in the kitchen rather than serving at table. So he let his eyes wander round the gathered people, packed onto the benches as no-one wanted to miss this final feast. Jaime was silent, brooding, but Theon would talk to him and was obviously trying to keep him out of himself. The rest of their little army was largely made up of the bannermen of the Starks. Logical since they were mostly from the North, closer when the call went out and more used to the cold – even if this was worse than most of them had ever experienced. Some were in the Black; the Night's Watch had withdrawn from the Wall before the cold killed even them. Most of the Night's watch were at the Dreadfort, East of Winterfell, and would meet up with his force further north. Here at Winterfell, only the older men remembered the last winter. Tyrion recalled that many of the men here had been dragged in to support his arrest by Catelyn on the road south. That seemed so long ago now. So many people had died, or been scattered around the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. It hardly seemed relevant anymore.

At first glance it was a cheerful gathering, but Tyrion could see the tension in the men and the over-smiling chatter of the women. Smiles that did not reach the eyes, where the pain of imminent loss hovered. The drink flowed, there was no real need to husband it, there would be plenty left for the remaining people and the water supply was safe. Let them enjoy themselves; but he did not envy them the hang-overs they would be taking with them in the morning. As the feast went on, the food waned but the wine held out and the hall grew louder and more raucous. A fight broke out at the far end and the others moved in swiftly and pulled the men apart. Jaime had been right to ban long weapons in the hall tonight, but everyone had a knife for eating with. And they did not need any more death before the parting. The racket seemed to act as a barrier, leaving Tyrion feeling like he was sitting alone, watching a mummer's play, even among so many people. No-one was talking to him; Jaime was barely talking at all. Still he watched; men vying with each other with their bravado, girls hiding their tears as they served or sat on the laps of their favourites. Some of the couples left the hall and went to seek their comfort in private. One or two didn't bother and coupled right there on the benches much to the amusement of their neighbours. He smiled; he was lusty but did not fancy being such an exhibition. Jaime noticed the activity and told Theon to stop them – but Tyrion stopped him. "Let them be, most of them will never feel warm again, let alone feel a woman." He went and fetched more wine instead.

The night wore on and the wine ran out, in fact Tyrion had ordered the servants to stop providing it to allow the men a chance of making it to the morning capable of riding. And the gathering gradually broke up – many people were sleeping already, scattered around the hall, making the most of the heat from the fires. Jaime and Theon were now talking and discussing what they might meet on the road. Tyrion left them to it. "Goodnight brother, I will see you off tomorrow, just be careful not to pack me on your horse like a spare baggage. I have no desire to weigh you down." Jaime looked at him a wan smile for his little brother. "You are not a burden, brother." Tyrion was astonished into silence and his heart thudded in his chest. It was the most generous thing anyone in his family had every said to him and he feared the heat behind his eyes bespoke tears. He turned and stalked away, desperate to be out of the hall before he explored his feelings. In his room, alone and facing the loss of his brother, possibly for good, he felt a crushing loneliness overwhelm him. After Jaime he had only his nephew Tommen and niece Myrcella for family. For what it was worth, he would rather have a bad family than none, and his seemed to be disappearing rapidly. This time the tears came and he climbed onto the bed and hugged himself into the furs and wept out his loss.


	5. Chapter 5 Jaime's army faces the Winter

The dawn was approaching, but the sky over Winterfell was still black, pierced with glittering stars. A horn had blown from the battlements half an hour ago – it was important that everyone that was needed was up and working. Some of those that were leaving were still breaking their fast with cold meat, bread and heated ale. Others, less able to sleep on such a night, were already in the yard fastening the complex leather strappings on their horses and loading their bed-roll, weapons and personal belongings behind the saddle. Breath blew in streamers from both men and horses and a slight fog had developed in the still, freezing air. Lights from dozens of lanterns threw hundreds of shadows at wild angles across the faces of the buildings, and they seemed to flicker on and off as bodies moved in front of them. The soft cawing of the caged ravens added a ghostly dimension to the scene. Sam Tarly, the young Maester had experienced the world beyond the Wall but he would not be going. He would be essential to the communication both with the army and with the South. He would also be among those responsible for the well-being of the people left behind. The prospect of this left him both sad and relieved. But he had prepared the ravens that would be used to communicate back to Winterfell, with the men of the Night's Watch leaving from the Dreadfort any time now, and also between groups if the army were to divide for any reason. He had also prepared messages that could be used in dire need, where there may be no time to write anything more. He prayed he would not receive any of those back, but he held out scant hope of it.

The wains of supplies had left hours ago to try to get ahead of the column of mounted men. They would not go right to the fighting of course, but would be used to set up base-camps at various points on the way north.

Many people gathered around the edges of the yard, most of them trying to hold some of their bed-warmth against them with huddled blankets and the occasional fur. They were subdued – like different people compared with the over-loud chatter and laughter of the night before. A young woman was sobbing quietly and a voice hushed her gently. The men did not need tears at this time. Jaime looked critically over the gathered men. Too many raw young men, boys in some cases and too many old men. The war for the throne of the Seven Kingdoms seemed like a pointless waste of men under the uncaring threat of Winter. But it had deprived many houses of their best, most experienced, fighters.

"So, brother, you are ready to save us?" Tyrion's voice floated up from within a pile of furs that looked like a small bear standing on the step. Even with that advantage, he was still more than a head shorter than Jaime. The sardonic tone was coloured with, what – fear, sadness? Probably just the freezing air. Jaime turned to regard his younger brother. "I don't know if we can do more than slow them down, but we must do something. If Winterfell falls there is nothing between the Wall and rest of the Kingdoms. Ned Stark was right after all – we do need a strong North." The pile of furs seemed to shrug. "As always the proud and the powerful learn their weakness too late. Better not to assume such things – it's much safer that way." Jaime signaled to his column lead and the horn sounded again. There was a flurry of fierce hugs, men mounting their horses and the clattering of strap-fastenings and equipment. "Take care of yourself little brother. I want a warm castle to return to." The look that Jaime gave Tyrion was heavy with sadness. "Look after Cersei." Tyrion reached up and put his gloved hand on Jaime's arm. "I will." He didn't want to, but he knew he would give her the proper memorial of a Queen, not a sister who had despised him all his life.

Jaime mounted swiftly, rode to the front of the column and saluted the people waiting. Turning, he led the mounted men out of the gate, in the tracks of the wains. The noise gradually faded and now the sound of weeping filled the yard. Women were comforting each other, easier than comforting themselves. It was as if the people left behind had sunk into a daze, not knowing what to do now. Tyrion called to Sam. "Get these people inside before we have to deal with our first crop of frost-bite."

The column rode in silence as the dark slowly gave way to the dawn light; the fog of animal and human breath remained hanging in the still air long after they passed. Some were too hung over to speak, others were too oppressed by the leaving and the rest had no-one to talk to. The air got steadily colder as they left the surroundings of Winterfell and before long they rode in the bitterest cold most of them had ever felt. It made mockery of the many layers they had put on and the only thing keeping them going was the heat of the horses against their thighs. There was some movement around them at first, some hardy birds and tracks of wolves that had been hunting through the night. But that also gradually disappeared, leaving them apparently the only living things in the world. Those that could bear the light, looked about them with a mixture of wonder and horror at the dead-white that had taken over the fields and streams that they had known. The occasional sight of a hovel half-buried in snow only served to oppress them further – this was not a snow wasteland – it had been someone's home.

After a few hours of riding through the bitter land, the light began to fade again – the days were shorter as they got colder – or did the air get colder as the days got shorter? Jaime mused on this for a while as he led the column. Mainly so he could avoid thinking of deeper, darker thoughts. But it mattered not a whit which came first – cold was cold and dark was dark and they could both kill.

They had caught up with the wains and shortly after they stopped to make camp. This would not be a base-camp, just a night-stop and the men set to work in a well-organised fashion. Some to put up defences, some to light fires and some to put up the crude shelters that would keep some of the cold at bay. They would sleep in twos and threes to share body heat. As soldiers they were used to that. They went about their work with the minimum of talk. Even this close to the castle, danger was ever-present, if not White Walkers, then wolves or even Dire-wolves could be attracted to the disturbance. The fires were a risk enough, but freezing to death was a greater risk.

Once the camp was set and those that drew the first watch were fed, the rest settled down to a brief meal before huddling down against the night. The silence was oppressive, but they gradually became aware of noises all around them. The creak of a snow-laden branch, the 'whump' of a load of snow falling to the ground, the rustle of an animal in the snow. All snow sounds – or were they? They were all nervous, but the younger ones did not hide their fear. And Jaime realized they would have a bad time of it if they sat there in growing fear every night. He started to talk, his voice carrying to the other fires and huddled groups of men. He spoke of Dorn and Castely Rock, warmer times and great battles and willing women. The other leaders realised his purpose and followed suit. The talk was not loud, but it served to distract the men and to block out some of the winter sounds. They would have to rely on the watch to spot any danger. Jaime also found it served to keep his mind off what would be happening in Winterfell – Cersei's funeral. But the night would be long and he did not expect any sleep.

Gradually the men buried themselves in their blankets and huddled down attempting to sleep. Silence fell, even the snow seemed to have quietened down, maybe the killing cold had stiffened the snow to a solid mass. Jaime lay in his blankets as the fire settled to a red glow and tried to focus on the task ahead. What was their purpose out here? Did they expect to fight the White Walkers off completely, or just drive them Northward for a time? Hardly anyone had believed in them at first – Tyrion had described such fears a child's fear of grumpkins. But when the reports came down from the Wall when the cold had first started to grow, of the dead walking with black fingers and ice-blue eyes, people had started to remember. Sam, and later Tyrion, had found reports of such creatures in the old books – along with hints of a magical weapon that could kill the White Walkers – the creatures that could make the dead walk. Sam and Jon had worked out that this weapon was Dragonglass – the black, glossy stone that was known to make a fantastically sharp edge. It felled the White Walkers, where steel could not. Fire dealt with the others, the recently dead raised to wreak havoc. They had all been taught to make fire rather than run when these creatures appeared – and fires were kept burning, with brands to hand by them at every stop. The third watch would be up soon and Jaime raised himself onto an elbow to check that the men due to go on watch were readying themselves. Some men were shaking out their blankets and picking up their weapons when a cry rang out across the camp. "Walkers!"

Chaos for a moment as everyone threw themselves out of their blankets – the cold forgotten for the time being. Some grabbed their weapons and ran in the direction of the call; others grabbed torches and shoved them into the nearest fire. The crackle of their ignition added a fearsome dimension to the sounds of controlled panic. Jaime was with the first to arrive at the young man who had given the call. He was staring into the dark, a trembling hand pointing into nothing. Jaime stared too – trying to sense whatever it was that the lad had seen."Nothing, there's nothing there." One of the older men behind Jaime grumbled and started to head back to the fires. "No! There!" the lad cried out again – a shape moved between other shapes – more than man-sized. Twenty torches were raised and the shape melted back into the further shadows. "See, there was something." The young man stared at Jaime, his eyes begging him to agree. "You were right to call boy, even if some of the old men want their warm blankets. There is something there – it may be afraid of the flames." He called to the men around him. "Light torches, make a ring around the camp, we leave in two hours."

That two hours were the longest that Harri, the unproven young man who had seen the first movement, had ever had to endure. Every moment he was sure he heard a crunch, a rustle or a sigh as a Walker came to attack them. The flames protected them – but the glare made it almost impossible to see beyond their little safety. How safe was it? Were the Walkers ranged just out of the light waiting for them to move? He couldn't stand it any longer – he stood up and placed himself between a pair of torches so he could see beyond. He was still there when Jaime came to see that all were ready to leave. He would remember the lad's courage – the rest had stayed well inside the ring of light.

They set off as the sky started to lighten, a barely discernible change, but it must be enough. But it could not be that they were moving from danger into safety. They were simply moving further and further into danger. The base-camp would be at a farm that Sam had told them about, maybe three days from Winterfell at this speed. That at least could maintain a greater protection than a temporary camp. From there they would make ranging patrols to locate and, if they could, kill or drive away the nearest Walkers. The Night's Watch riding from the Dreadfort would be doing the same a few days ride East. They hoped to clear the land immediately North of the line joining Winterfell and the Dreadfort – the challenge was to find the Walkers in their own land, and then have these raw recruits and grandfathers face them without quailing.

Two more days of frozen riding and two more nights of frozen non-sleep and fear found them at the farm. It was not a farm any longer, just a collection of five or six building; all walls with barely a roof in place. They found the most weather-proof hovel and made that safe as they could. Some men set up oiled cloths over the holes in another building – it would have to do as a billet. The horses were provided with shelter too, they would be the difference between life and death. But before all that, the most important feature was put in place – the perimeter was set with unlit torches and fires set ready to light. The guards would be tending them as much as looking out for movement beyond. Jaime reviewed the set-up and approved the speed and quiet efficiency the men had managed despite the cold and fear and inexperience. He returned to the main building and set down with Theon to plan the next stage – the hunting of the Walkers.


	6. Chapter 6 Tyrion and Jaime's path North

The circumstances that had brought the Lannisters and their entourage to Winterfell were complex and had taken time. After Joffrey's death and Cersei's humiliation, control of King's Landing and her son's upbringing had been taken from her. It had become obvious she was not a suitable regent for Tommen's minority rule. And until he was of age the kingdom must be protected from her impetuous acts and machinations. The expected attack by Danaerys and her adopted people had come and taken the entire kingdom's might to resist. But it had been short-lived. The support that Viserys had always believed would be theirs did not appear – at least not in the numbers he had taught her to expect. The men that had supported their father and brother had died or grown old waiting. The soldiers flocking to her banner had been mostly young and many of them more like bounty hunters than from honoured families. In the darkest hours of her struggle she had sat, staring into the flames of the fire and searched her heart. This was not her fight – it was her brothers' Rheagar first and Viserys later. And it had killed them both. She had no memory of this place as her home. Her home was the land of long grasses and endless skies; her people were the Dothraki. Her Sun and Stars – Khal Drogo – had been the only man, the only person, to accept her instead of use her for their own ends. So she had withdrawn from the Seven Kingdoms, the cold from the long Winter seemed to chase her from its dominion. She was a child of the dragon-flames and could not love a cold land. She left the men of Westeros to settle their dispute for the cold, hard Iron Throne.

Even so, the loss of so many men in the futile battles had weakened the Lannisters badly. Their weaker supporters had each found reasons to withdraw to their own lands – the coming Winter was sufficient cause for all those North of King's Landing. Gendry, Robert's only living child, although a bastard, had ascended his father's throne. He had support from some who rode to his banner in Robert's memory, but he also had support in the shadows. Lord Verys had worked hard to ensure a suitable claimant to the throne. For Lord Varys of course, suitable meant old enough not to have a guardian confusing their choices and young enough to be taught – he was honest enough to admit, manipulated – into acting for the good of the realm, which was the eunuch's only love.

Jaime, recognising that his position at court was untenable, and acutely aware of the limitations to a soldier of having a hand missing, had directed his energies to protecting the Kingdom from the threats that would come with the Winter. Cersei had begged to go with him and Lord Varys had made it clear that her safety alone in King's Landing could not be assured. Which meant, of course, that she would be quietly murdered. So, unwillingly, he had accepted her company on the road. She had been subdued but hopeful – of what he couldn't bring himself to find out. The journey had been slow, with Cersei travelling in a covered cart – really a heavy box on solid wheels. Slow, cumbersome and acutely uncomfortable after a day or two. Jaime was glad he could ride – it also excused him from Cersei's company for much of the journey. Although the nights were a trial.

Tyrion's path to Winterfell had been slower. Finding his brother and sister gone from King's Landing and seeing Gendry on the throne had been a surprise. The new king had taken his father's name, Baratheon. Although he had not been acknowledged publicly by Robert, enough evidence of his previous interest in his only son had been brought out to encourage his acceptance by the Baratheon bannermen. Most of all people craved stability after the upheavals of the recent years. Cersei's (not Robert's) remaining children, Tommen and Myrcella had been made wards of Gendry's court and, as minor relatives of the Baratheon family, would remain under the court's protection until Tommen took the sword and Myrcella could be married to a younger son of a minor supporter.

Having no interest in fighting for a throne that had been his father's, Tyrion could choose to stay or go. He had seriously considered staying. His young niece and nephew, Myrcella and Tommen were there under the care of the Septas, learning their place in the world. He had always been their favourite Uncle, but he could not see himself as a court hanger-on for the rest of his life. They were still young enough not to have been poisoned by Cersei's obsessive power seeking, and to thrive in the protected atmosphere of the court. But while he was at court, the days had shortened and his thoughts turned northwards. From Lord Varys and Peter Littlefinger, the real powers behind the throne, he had learned of the plans to turn Winterfell into the last bastion against the dangers, both mortal and supernatural, that would threaten the rest of the kingdom. He had quipped to Lord Verys that Jaime would never be able to hold his own with the northern whores and he would have to go and lend a hand. The eunuch had laughed politely at the less than subtle references to Jaime's one-handedness. But, in truth, Tyrion could not shake the feeling that he could be of more practical use in the harsh conditions at Winterfell than in the luxurious setting of King's Landing. Not that he had relished risking getting his extremities frozen off on the way. So he had set off North with a small party, making many stops on the way. His companions were amazed more than once how he could always find an inn with a fire even in the most uninhabited regions.

When he had arrived at Winterfell he had found it much changed since his last visit. Of course Robb and Jon Snow were dead, along with Ned Stark and his courageous wife Catelyn. Bran had been taken to safety along with Rickon, and Sansa and Arya had been in King's Landing with their father when he had been killed. Murdered, Tyrion had to acknowledge, by Joffrey. He had no idea what had become of the smaller girl, Arya. And Sansa had run from King's Landing after her marriage to Tyrion and Joffreys' death. Tyrion had been accused of that murder and Sansa too, by association, and she had run. He could hardly blame the poor child. But after the battles for the throne, and Daenerys's withdrawal, Sansa had finally emerged into the world. She had sent word to Winterfell that she had found Rickon; Bran was gone. Just 'gone' no-one knew what that meant – they assumed he was dead and she could not bring herself to write the word. The message did not reach any Starks – it reached Jaime just before Tyrion arrived. He assumed she would return home eventually to reclaim her position.

The messenger arrived at the gate and the news flew through the castle. Sansa Stark was back. Sansa Lannister now of course, her marriage to Tyrion had been forced but it was real enough. Tyrion was in the hall with Maester Sam, discussing ideas for using the hot water supply as some kind of barrier or weapon against the Walkers when the news reached him. He stared at the steward for some moments taking in the news. He knew this was going to be complicated and he had no idea how Sansa would react to him. She had certainly made it clear on and after their wedding that she couldn't bear to be near him. The steward described the party as he had been told it, Sansa and her brother Rickon escorted by a small group of men led by Sandor Clagane – the Hound. Tyrion's heart sank further. This was a man who was hard to work with; not dull witted but stubborn and dangerous. Ah well, we shall see what happens when it happens. He pushed himself off his chair and stood, stretching to take the knots out of his back.

"Have rooms prepared for Sansa and Rickon, near each other. And find space for the others." He had no idea what had been Sansa's room in her childhood, or if she would want it back. They could sort that out later. It crossed his mind that a wife might want to share her husband's bed, but dismissed that in less time than it took to think it. The party was expected in two days time and Tyrion instructed a small feast of welcome to be prepared. It could not be sumptuous but a family returning home should feel welcome. Rickon was still too young to rule a household so, as Sansa's husband, Tyrion was the head of the family for now. The thought had never occurred before, and he savoured, for a moment, the unusual feelings it created.

The stores had been counted and double counted since the men had left. They knew exactly what they had and how long they could hold out before hunger really started to bite. There was still some hunting to be had, especially south, but that would not be relied upon for a steady supply. Water should never be a problem, and they should be able to keep themselves from freezing even in the worst of the long winter to come.

During that last evening before his wife arrived, Tyrion went in search of Marriet. He had finally convinced her to stay in his room most nights, and he enjoyed her company at least as much as he enjoyed their lovemaking. But he had not seen her since the news came of the new arrivals. He found her working in the laundry, where he had first spoken to her, but this time she was alone. She had seen him walk in, but had immediately turned her face from him. He used a bench to climb up to the table where Marriet was standing staring at her hands, no longer even pretending to work, and sat on the edge of the table. Not exactly a position of stature, more like a boy talking to a friend. But the easier to see her face. "I married Sansa three years ago and she was too young. We were forced into it by my family as a punishment for me and to control her. We never, ah, I didn't . . ." Why was this embarrassing? Surely his reputation as a sexual athlete was not so precious to him."She was untouched when we parted. Our marriage is real but unreal." What he wanted to say was – Do you think that because my wife is here I will turn you out of my bed? But he realised how that sounded, and what it made of Marriet. He took her hand, but she pulled away and he sighed. "Marriet, I can't pretend I am not married, but I wish I wasn't. Not to Sansa anyway." At this Marriet looked up, a question in her eyes and he gazed back. Did he love this woman? Could he remember what love felt like – and could it be the same as his 13 year-old's love? Of course not, he was a grown man; he had killed and plotted and whored – he could never feel that love again. But this? "I want you, not her." He said simply. "But you must do what's right for your wife." Marriet smiled sadly as she spoke "And I must wait." She leaned down and kissed him. "I will wait." His heart did that thudding thing again and he kissed her hand before jumping awkwardly down from the table. He bowed extravagantly to her "My Lady." And swept out and back to the hall feeling like a man on air.


	7. Chapter 7 Sansa Returns to Winterfell

The arrival of the Starks and their company was greeted with tears and cheering from the servants and common folk. Tyrion stood at the top of the steps to the Keep and greeted his wife and her little brother with courtesy. "Welcome home Lord Rickon, my Lady Sansa. Although times have changed, Winterfell is still your home and hearth." He bowed and Rickon accepted the greeting with grave courtesy. "I thank you for your welcome and I doubt not that Winterfell has been well cared for under your guidance." He had obviously been coached but managed to speak his piece without stammering. It must be terrifying for a child under ten to find himself Lord of a castle. Tyrion looked at Sansa and she smiled and thanked him, in her turn, for his welcome. They went into the hall, where hot spiced wine and bread and meat were waiting. Sandor Clagane followed them in, the side of his face a ruin of scars, and he watched Tyrion closely but did not speak. The smaller man wondered at this, why was the Hound watching him? What was he looking for? The rest of the party unloaded the baggage and there was a bustle as they and the castle servants went about the business of establishing sleeping places, seeing that the horses and mules were stripped, brushed down and stabled and dishing out food and drink to them and the riders.

The feast was a modest affair, but the people crowding into the hall to welcome the Starks home made it a merry evening. The travellers were obviously tired, it had been an uncomfortable and bitterly cold journey and the fewer hours of daylight had meant more days on the road. They did not discuss affairs in the south at the high table, that would wait for the next day, but they talked of the army that had headed north into the frozen lands and the preparations in the castle for the long winter. The evening ended quietly and Rickon took his leave with all courtesy. When Sansa retired she wished her husband a goodnight but did not enquire as to his sleeping arrangements – clearly they did not interest her at this stage. As the hall cleared Tyrion found himself alone with Sandor Clagane. They had not spoken during the feast, being seated too far apart. The Hound was leaning back in his seat observing him. "Will you not join your wife, Imp? Or are real ladies too high-born for a man of your stature?" Tyrion acknowledge the humour in the jibe with a raise of his cup, but a jibe it was nonetheless.

"I have no wish to lie with a lady who is too tired to keep her eyes open, I might take that as a slight on my prowess." His memories of lying with a disgusted and scared Sansa rose unbidden in his mind and he scowled into his wine. He wondered briefly if she were still untouched, and caught Sandor's eye as he thought it. He wants her! No, he looked more closely. "You care for her?"

Sandor's eyes flicked away and he growled. "She is my Lady, above my station."

"And I made Bronn into a Lord for serving me well. Lords may be born, made or even take their Lordship by force. Stations change and a brave man is as good as a high-born one. Better sometimes." Tyrion stopped suddenly. Am I offering my wife to this man? He took a swallow of wine. "Does she know?"

"What do you think!" Sandor crashed his cup down so hard it shattered, the red splash of wine flung across the table. A scarred face could be as limiting as being a Dwarf perhaps. Tyrion threw him a fresh cup. "Here, try not to break this one or we will be drinking out of the flagons before the winter ends." They drank in silence for a while, each lost in his own thoughts. "Will you join us in the morning? We need to discuss the situation here and in the South. I would value your knowledge." Tyrion was being polite, but he also wanted to get as much information as possible about the rest of the Kingdom. "I'll be there – looks like you need someone in charge here." Tyrion was not pleased to hear this, and he took that thought to his bed rather than pursue it with a stomach full of wine. He did not sleep much, missing Marriet and thinking about what the Hound had said. He assumed he would be challenged for the right to run Winterfell – well that could be a problem, he could hardly expect to win an arm-wrestling bout with Sandor Clagane let alone a sword fight. And Bronn was not here to be his champion.

The morning brought weak sunshine and a cold wind from the East. And found Tyrion, the Hound, Sansa and Rickon, well wrapped in furs, walking the wall around the castle to observe the defences and arrangements for keeping the animals and stores safe from predators and the weather. "Weak, this place is like a pleasure house not a castle." Sandor growled. "I'd hate to see your idea of a house of suffering if you think this is a one of pleasure, Hound." Sansa glared at him "_Sandor_ is a skilled soldier, you should consider his opinions worth having." Tyrion raised his eyebrow at her emphasis on the Hound's given name, and she blushed but he bowed graciously and did not comment. The stores were examined and Rickon questioned him about how long they would last. "It depends, my Lord, on how many people are here, whether we can supplement the food by hunting or fishing and how cold the weather gets." He acknowledged Rickon as his Lord and spoke to him as an adult, even though he was not yet 10 years old. And he knew Sansa noticed. It was perhaps, easier since Rickon already stood eye to eye with him. "We control how much food is used each day, we never waste anything and no-one has access to the stores but me and Horan, the steward here. The people that have come here to shelter brought what they could and we have plenty of skills to call upon." Rickon nodded. "You need more soldiers and weapons." _Sandor_ was like a dog at a bone sometimes, thought Tyrion.

"Most of them went North, that was the more dangerous path. But you are right, we lack strength and most of all we lack experience here." They needed a Master at Arms and, truth be known, Sandor Clagane was probably the best man for the job within 200 miles. The inspection complete, they returned to the relative warmth of the hall and Tyrion ordered hot wine for them, watered a little for Rickon. Sandor left to check on the horses and Tyrion turned to Sansa and Rickon. "I believe the Hou – Sandor, would be a useful man to strengthen our defences. What do you think about making him Master at Arms and putting the defence of Winterfell under his leadership?" Rickon turned to Sansa and looked questioningly at her. "I think that would be an excellent choice, husband. Will you speak to him, Rickon?" Rickon looked scared. "Perhaps we should both be there, my Lord, so he doesn't feel he is usurping me." Tyrion smiled kindly at Rickon who looked hugely relieved. He caught Sansa looking at him and biting her lip.

Later that day, Sansa paced the floor in the privacy of her rooms. She couldn't decide, she wasn't even sure she had a choice. Her first priority was Rickon, now Lord of Winterfell, as Ned Stark's last remaining legitimate son. Even though he was younger than her, it was males first. That was not the problem; and it was clear that his position was not threatened here. That had been her greatest fear, that they would arrive and find that Rickon's claim was already usurped. The problem was Tyrion – or was it Sandor? Tyrion was her husband and honour bound her to him. However unwelcome the marriage had been, she could not but admit he had been kind and gentle with her. He could have taken her that night, he had the right and she knew from court gossip he was perfectly capable as a man. And perhaps, if things had been different and they had spent the last three years together they might have learned to accept each other – but they hadn't had that chance. And now there was Sandor. Hardly better looking than the Imp – the Hound and the Imp, how she loathed those names. But she had learned that a handsome face and a knightly figure counted for little in battle and less in honour. She had been such a foolish child; she couldn't bear to think how she had imagined herself in love with the monster Joffrey. No wonder Arya hated her – she deserved nothing less.

Sandor Clagane had looked after her; he had ensured her safety and she had thought him honourable. He had cared for her through the fever those months ago – and she had thought him kind. He had held her when she was wracked with grief for her mother, her brothers and her father – and she had thought him loving. But after that tenderness he had withdrawn from her, even the humour that had slowly emerged into the daylight in her company had sunk again and he was morose and sullen once more. That had been their situation for the last few weeks as they travelled to Winterfell. What had she done wrong? How had she offended him? The door opened and she swung round ready to rail at the person who had disturbed her struggles. "My Lord husband." As she curtsied, she almost hated that she was a good, well brought up girl and used courtesy to cover her feelings. Although she was sure her thoughts were written clear on her face. "My Lady Sansa, may we speak?" He was not sure this was a good time, but this had to be done – sooner rather than later. "Of course, my Lord – Tyrion." Using his given name felt odd and hearing it from her felt odder after all this time. He sat in the cushioned chair by the window and Sansa sat by him on another.

"Forgive me my bluntness, Sansa, but I must know this. Do you love Sandor Clagane?" Sansa was terrified and clutched the arms of the chair. A woman who betrayed her husband was as like as not cast out, even from her own family home, and many suffered much worse. But this was Tyrion; he would not be so cruel, surely? Her face was white with fear but she answered him honestly. "I do, forgive me Tyrion. He has been my protector and guide for these two or more years and he has always looked after me." Her husband nodded. "Has he bedded you?" This time Sansa blushed red and stammered out. "No, my Lord, no-one – he never even tried." She was not sure how she felt about that – grateful or hurt at the rejection. "He is an honourable man, then. How does he feel about you?" This time Sansa simply looked forlorn and shook her head sadly. Tears slowly trickled down her face as she thought of the only man she could imagine being with, but he was so cold to her. Tyrion stood and went to his wife. He put his arms around her, as well as he could, and hugged her. "He loves you, child, he doesn't feel he is worthy of you." The tears flowed then, and her sobbing broke her voice. "Worthy of me? I am a fool and a spiteful child – he is the most honourable man I know. I want him." The last was whispered into Tyrion's shoulder and he was surprised at how little the words hurt.

The annulling of a marriage is not a simple thing, if any party objects. But Sansa had no father to rant or mother to weep and Rickon was pleased to make his sister happy. He ordered, well asked politely, Maester Sam to write up the proper document and arranged the necessary people to attend. Tyrion had talked to Sansa long into the night. He had told her all about Marriet and how he felt about her. And in the process realised he should probably tell Marriet as well. They discussed her marrying Sandor at the same time as the annulment, but she wisely wanted to wait and allow him to ask her himself rather than be handed a wife as a Lord's cast off. So the next day they signed the paper and drank a toast to the future and found themselves no longer man and wife. Sandor was asked to be witness, as required by the law, and he looked alternately astonished and pleased. At least Tyrion assumed the expression was pleasure, it was hard to tell. But the smile Sansa turned on the scarred face as he signed, shone with happiness.

"This changes your status in Winterfell now, doesn't it?" Two weeks later, Sandor was smiling, a slightly terrifying look and Tyrion worked at not looking away. "That is true, but I would hope still to be of some use, even as a house-guest." Sansa looked up from her sewing and smiled at them both. Rickon looked between her and the two men trying to work out if there was trouble. "Don't tease, Sandor. Ask him." Tyrion cocked an eye at her and wondered what was coming. The wedding between Sansa and Sandor had been celebrated the day before and from the sounds that drifted down to the hall later that night, the marriage had been consummated to the satisfaction of both parties. At least twice. Maybe there are advantages to a girl wedding a little older, they are ready for more, mused Tyrion.

"Sansa thinks you will be a useful man to manage the castle. If you would be willing to answer to me." Sandor looked as if he found that thought both highly unlikely and highly amusing. Tyrion gazed into his cup as if thinking – actually he had already thought about it for some days and knew what he wanted. "So you and Sansa will be Rickon's regents until he comes of age?" They nodded together. How sweet, Tryion smiled. "And I would be, well, not so much the King's Hand as the Hound's Paw?" Sansa gasped, Rickon giggled and, after a few moments staring at the smaller man, Sandor threw his head back and roared with laughter – a sound none of them, not even his new wife, had ever heard.


	8. Chapter 8 Jaime faces the Walkers

The icy silence was only broken by the whuffling breath of the horses and the occasional soft thump of a hoof onto the hard-packed snow in the yard. The small group of riders were ready to move. Waiting only for the signal – a low whistle, the only sound the sentries dared use.

The plan had been set, to ready themselves for attack, but to counter it with an attack of their own. A bold plan, and fraught with danger, but allowing the attack to enter the compound was suicide and finding even the signs of Walkers in daylight had proved almost impossible. It had become clear that they left almost no marks in the snow as they moved, did they even touch the snow as they walked?

And so the brave men waited, in the growing dark as the last shreds of light faded from the bitter sky. When the reddish light of the sun faded, the dead white of the moon took its place. The bone numbing cold of day giving way to the impossible cold of night. Sentries had been set further out than was safe, these had to be the bravest of men, waiting out beyond the last torches to be able to see and hear any approach. Harri had been one of the first to step forward when the order was given and Jaime had asked him why, did he want to die? Harri had shaken his head firmly. "My family is at Winterfell. If we fail, if I fail, they will die." The murmur of assent had confirmed the strength of feeling in the whole room.

Now all they could do was wait; Jaime had ordered that the outer sentries would signal if they saw or heard anything. Or if the perimeter sentries heard them being attacked, that would serve as a signal. Was it possible for the Walkers to get inside the ring of sentries and to the lit perimeter without being sensed? When the signal came would the men be too cold and numb to respond? Jaime wondered if he should have – the signal! Two low notes – Northward then. They moved out at an orderly canter from the yard and then into a gallop, heading straight for the source of the signal.

They broke through the perimeter and out onto the flat plain of snow beyond. A small knot of movement betrayed the exact target and they wheeled slightly to reach it. A black splash across the snow must be blood and Jaime could see a still figure at the centre of it, another kneeling nearby seemed to be struggling with a pure white figure standing over it. Two other ghostly white figures faced down a sentry but they all turned to the sound of the onrushing horses.

The front line were carrying fire-brands and these left streams of sparks and flame in the frigid air. The figures parted and some ran for the trees and the men – the living men – stood their ground and allowed the horses to gallop past them. Then turned and stooped to carry their fallen comrade back to the compound. They could do no more without horses.

Jaime bore down on one of the fleeing ghosts – he had to intercept it before it got to the trees. As he caught the figure he dropped the torch and swept his sword out of the scabbard. He swerved to bring his horse to the left and swung the blade at the Walker's head. The head fell away to the right and the body ran on – Jaime was horrified – could they still live with no head? But, no, it was just the body's impetus. It quickly stumbled and collapsed on its, well not its face, its chest in the snow. No blood stained the pristine white and it laid still where it fell.

Jaime marked the spot in his mind and turned to join the chase for the remaining two Walkers. One was down – on its knees with a spear through its back and Jaime watched as a rider swept its head from its shoulders. "Leave it, follow me" he ordered as he galloped past. The last one was into the trees and horses would be hard pressed to follow at speed. He passed the first few trees but then had to dismount. It took a moment, releasing his false hand from the reins was never quick, but he had practiced over and over so at least he no longer got it entangled worse. With his sword in hand he ran through to where he could see torches seeming to encircle a shape standing in a clearing.

The men, on foot, would not approach, although the creature was also reluctant to approach the flames. Its white features looked hard and glassy, its face showing no emotion whatsoever – not a dead thing but like a statue of the whitest marble come to life. "Who has a Dragonglass blade?" Jaime spoke softly, the eerie silence seemed hard to break. Three voices replied. Jaime signalled to them to spread out and for the others to back away. They could only be harmed in this fight – but they carried the torches and continued to wave them to confuse and distract the creature. Could it understand speech? If he gave orders to his men, would it know what he intended – had it ever been human? I decided it was more likely to understand signals than speech so gave swift instructions.

On his signal, the other three men with Dragonglass blades leapt in front of the creature and made as if to attack it but kept just out of its reach. It swung at them, wholly focussed on their movement. Jaime had held back for a moment, but once the creature was wholly intent on killing the three attackers, he dashed in behind it and sliced across its lower back with his own Dragonglass blade. The creature screamed – the sound cut through every man there and shook the snow from the neighbouring trees. The men were incapable of defending themselves, hands to their ears, some were screaming themselves. Thankfully it was the death-cry of the Walker and it fell almost parted in two at the waist, still twitching as it lay there, the echoes of the awful cry seemed to ring in Jaime's ears. He stepped forward and beheaded the seemingly dead figure in one stroke. The men looked at him uncertain. "If it can't find its head it can't find us."

They dragged the dead creatures into the open area away from the compound and built two pyres. A smaller one would deal with the heads – Jaime had become sure that separating the heads and burning them and the corpses was the only way to be sure the creatures could not return. The flames burned through the remains of the night – no smell of burning flesh could be discerned but the smell of burning pine was somehow cheering to the men in the compound. Jaime was not satisfied. They had dealt with 3, and it had taken almost all their resources and meant they were on alert all night. This was unsustainable. How many Walkers were there? Did they increase their numbers somehow?

The next morning Jaime went to inspect the pyres. All had been consumed and only ash remained. He felt the ash, it seemed to be wholly wood ash – soft and white. The grey, gritty ash of burned bone seemed absent. It could have been that the fires were so hot as to consume even that – but he thought not. Maybe even a relatively small fire destroyed the Walkers – were they truly made of pure cold, held together by a malignant spirit? If that was the case, defending Winterfell would come down to providing a permanent barrier of flame around it. But that was impossible – they would need a hundred forests to do that through the long winter. He kicked at the ash a few times, thinking, then called to his men and returned to the compound – his mind made up.

Later that day four men were preparing to leave. A raven had been sent to the Dreadfort telling of the attack and the effect of fire and warning them that Jaime was sending some men to work with them on their defences. They took a raven in case of dire need but argued through the afternoon as to who was to carry it – they were always an encumbrance. Finally they were ready to set off – that would be at first light. They would need a full day to get as far from the compound as possible in case the fire and noise had attracted Walkers to the area. They would return in ten days or so or at least send word of the Dreadfort's defences.

In the meantime the men would plan strategies to defeat and kill different numbers of Walkers, taking into account what the first couple of attacks had taught them. Jaime also sent a raven back to Winterfell with his thoughts on the use of fire against the Walkers and the fact that they seemed deaf to human speech, or to at least not understand it. He hoped Tyrion could make use of that knowledge – he knew his clever younger brother would at least be able to record it for the next defenders. If there were any.


	9. Chapter 9 The defence grows

Sam looked out over the parapet of the outer wall. The men working on the ditches were the only moving things. The snow blanketed everything, weighing down the trees and muffling every sound. The clear blue sky should have been a cheerful sight after so many days of grey cloud, snow and wind. But it was a hard, icy blue that made Sam's eyes hurt. He preferred the warm light of fire and candles – and barely remembered summer sun on green grass. That's what he missed most – green.

The ditches were coming on, not well, but slowly. The dirty gashes in the pristine snow bordered by untidy heaps of soil thrown up alongside. They reminded him of eye-brows – his father's unforgiving eyes had bristling eye-brows that Sam had hated. He dragged his mind away from those unhappy thoughts – he had enough to worry about without sinking into his sad history. He needed to report to Tyrion about the ditches – and the view from the wall gave an excellent over-view of the work. He found he could even estimate the depth of the ditches by the size of the spoil-heaps next to them.

Once he had noted the progress his gaze wandered beyond the broken ring of ditches. White as far as he could see, and not a sign of any humans heading their way. No newcomers had arrived for weeks now. All dead, he assumed, or they had headed further south. That led his thoughts back to the girl, Gilly, and the babe he had taken from the Wall. Did they still live? Would he ever see them again? He ducked swiftly back down the steps and headed for the keep and the relative warmth of the hall. The tears that threatened at such times would not do to freeze onto his eyelids.

Reporting to Tyrion allowed him to push his memories away for a while. About one third of the circuit had ditches started, about half of those were finished and the rest varied from almost finished to barely begun. He estimated the same number of men would take another 6 weeks to complete the defensive ring. Tyrion shook his head and paced the floor. "Too little and too slow." His words were bitter, almost angry. "I'm sorry my Lord." Sam looked crestfallen. "It's not your fault Sam – stop apologising when you are not to blame." He found Sam's self-effacing gentleness irritating sometimes. "You are still a man, even after your vows – remember to act like one." "Yes my Lord, I'm sorry my Lord." Tyrion spun on Sam and caught the amused glint in his eye, he burst out laughing. "No, Sam, I'm sorry. I forget you have seen and done incredible things already." Sam had shown himself to be a skilled organiser, just so long as he didn't need to give orders. But he would learn that skill given time – he would have to. Tyrion could not do this alone. Sandor Clegane had little time for Sam, but he was more concerned about the defences anyway so Tyrion ended up working with both, but separately.

The long Winter was biting. People no longer came but even so, the castle was overcrowded. And it was well known that poor food and cramped conditions could lead to illness. Camp fever was the greatest fear. It could kill half its victims and leave the rest too weak for anything for weeks. They needed space, and they needed to be able to keep warm. The repairs and rebuilding that had taken place before the Lannisters arrived had been at a slow pace. Tyrion had organised anyone with enough skill or strength to repair and rebuild essential buildings, both for living and for storage. Stone was being robbed from the demolition spoil. Even the children could be of use, cleaning masonry for re-use and fetching and carrying. At least they had plenty of willing hands to ease the work. But what they needed was supplies of wood and iron. The iron was principally for tools, the carpenters were skilled at making wooden joints so could leave out many nails. The blacksmith could produce most of what they needed, but he would soon be cannibalising old tools, a process that could not be sustained.

"Come with me" Sam trotted obediently alongside Tyrion as he headed down into the body of the Keep. "How are the water-works coming along my Lord?" The joke was that they were going to piss on the Walkers so the language mirrored that image. "Well, we are raising water but not fast. The danger is that it will cool too much before we can use it." The wheel lifting the water was driven by mules, but they tired and needed feeding. But the channels to pour the water out of the keep and down to the ring-ditch were growing daily. Of course, once out the water would cool and freeze very fast – it would be better to pour it on the Walkers as they approached – Tyrion would worry about that when they could lift water fast enough to actually use it.

They stood and surveyed the water wheel and the men working on the channels – Tyrion frowning at the problems that still troubled him and Sam wide-eyed with awe at the work already completed. Waterfalls fall hard, Sam thought, what we need is a waterfall. But for that we would need a river above the Keep, or at least, higher than the ring-ditch. He turned and hurried back to his books and candles – Tyrion turned and looked after him, surprised. "Don't tell me he's scared of the dark too."

Some days later Tyrion was in the yard heading for the stables when shouts from the store houses had him change his direction abruptly. There had thankfully been little trouble so far, but maybe the peace of the castle was as brittle as the hope of Spring.

As he entered he was blinded briefly by the darkness and paused while his eyes adjusted. He could hear scuffling and the voice of one of the kitchen servants growling "We'll see what the Hound has to say about your thieving, you little git." "Lord Clegane would not wish to hear you call him that." Tyrion's warning served to silence the scuffling as well as announcing himself. "M-my Lord? I didn't mean anything by it." Having unintentionally removed any authority the cook had over the situation, Tyrion decided he had better take charge. "What have we here? A thief?"

The cook dragged an unwilling starveling into the meagre light from the door. The boy was possibly seventeen but such a stunted underfed creature he was. Even so he would still look down on Tyrion if he had a mind to. "I was starving, your Grace, m'Lord, Ser." Tyrion suppressed a smile – being smart enough to hedge his bets was no reason to let the boy off for stealing food. Mercy and pity were not going to keep them fed this winter. He should be dealt with – Tyrion knew that Sandor Clegane would have the boy killed out of hand, as a warning to others – as an improvement on being driven out to freeze and become an enemy – dead but deadly. But, somehow, killing someone when they were all in such a dire position seemed futile. "How long have you been here boy?" He kept his voice hard and uncompromising – he was an accomplished actor – it had kept him alive at times. "I came in the last group – I hoped my family –" his head dropped and his voice faltered. Gods, is there no-one who has a hope or kin left in the world? Tyrion hardened his heart though. "Each person is fed the same, why should you get more? Why should I not throw you over the wall right now?" The cook reinforced the suggestion with a hard shake of the captive and more enthusiasm than Tyrion felt was safe. The boy trembled but stood his ground. "They took my food – the guards, just cos they are big. T'ain't right. No, everyone ain't fed the same, m'Lord." Tyrion knew this was going to mean a confrontation with Sandor – not a prospect he relished.

The boy had made a pick from a twist of metal and some wood. Clever hands and a clever brain should be used, goodness knows there were enough simpletons to look after. "What is your trade, boy?" Tyrion turned the pick over in his hands; it was well made and serviceable. "I was to be a saddler and – I ain't your boy." This lad would see more beatings than he would wish with an attitude like that – at least until he was big enough or fast enough to avoid them. Tyrion liked him. "Well, I will put you to work where you will not have your food taken. Give him a fur to cover him and put him to work on the ditches." The boy sagged, whether relief or horror it was hard to tell, but the cook was livid. "M'Lord this thief should be punished!" Tyron stayed him with a hand. "This IS his punishment. Would you like to go in his place? If digging ditches through the ice and within reach of Walkers is more to your taste than the warmth of the kitchen." The cook's mouth snapped shut. Good, thought Tyrion, keep it that way.

The boy was called Morten, and he didn't enjoy the ditch digging. But he kept his head down and his mouth shut enough to only suffer an occasional wallop from the overseer. Tyrion had put off broaching the subject of store-house thieves and mess-hall bullies with Clegane but he knew he could not avoid it forever.

Over the scant evening meal, he mused over how to raise it without sounding like 'his people' were suffering at the hands of 'Clegane's people'. But he was beaten to it anyway. "I hear a rumour that you have let a thief off with his hands and his life." Tyrion sighed into his wine-cup. So it begins. "I felt he was more use alive than dead and I'm sure that he will resist temptation in future – he knows what his fate would be." Clegane was deeply unimpressed and was about to launch a tirade against playing soft with cowards and thieves in the teeth of battle. Tyrion was watching him carefully, trying to form his defence in the most compelling words. It would have been easier to chuck the boy over the wall. But the image of Bran, crippled and broken, was always in the corner of his mind. Sansa surprised them both. "I will not have people killed for being hungry. If we cannot secure the stores than how can we pretend that we can secure the castle?" Sandor turned, angry at first, his authority had been undermined, but the fact was she was right. The boy's ability to get into the store said more about their lack of security than his criminality. "So what shall we do - open the doors?" Her steady, confident gaze was not going to stop him making his point. Tyrion answered him. "No, we ensure the stores are accessible only to those with a key and only two keys will exist. I will have new locks made and have the keys brought here." He spoke to Sandor but his eyes were on Sansa. She was establishing herself as the true Lady of Winterfell and her authority would ultimately hold sway. She nodded and Sandor inclined his head slightly. Well that was generous, Tyrion thought ironically. Now for the hard step. He swirled the wine in his cup and spoke without rancour. "I understand that some of the stronger men have been talking food from the weaker. This needs to stop or there will be murder in the castle." This time Sandor flushed darkly and glared at Tyrion. "Who claims this – your thief-boy?" Their eyes met and neither backed down, although inside, Tyrion almost quailed. "My Lord Sandor, it doesn't matter who makes the claim, it is enough that the claim is made. And if it's true, we must stop it. This is an enclosed community under dire threat from outside. We cannot afford fear and accusations to take hold inside as well. Or there _will_ be murder." The courtesy of the title Sandor had accepted so recently had some effect, but it was Sansa's hand, calmly resting on his that seemed to have most impact. "I think Tyrion is right, my Lord husband. The men will answer to you, and obey your commands in this." Unlike the dwarf, thought Tyrion with gritted teeth. But she was right – it must be the Hound that made this happen. "You are right – this cannot descend into chaos. I will speak to the men." Tyrion poured them all a fresh cup of wine and toasted them extravagantly. But Sansa and Sandor were looking at each other again and Tyrion shrugged and left them to it. No doubt the solar would be disturbed with night-time activity again; he smiled as he made his way to his own apartment and Marriet.

A few days later Tyrion took Morten with him down to the source of the hot water. The boy was supposed to be holding the torch but he was so terrified his hands were shaking enough to make the flames tremble and gutter. In the end Tyrion grabbed the torch from him and pushed the boy ahead. "Stay to one side and the light will show us the way, lad." The tunnel was a little less scary with the flame steadier, but Morten was still silent and scared. When they broke out into a larger chamber where three men were working, one was feeding a miserable-looking mule and the other two were repairing a splintered spar and tangled traces. "The poor lass spooked at a shadow and kicked out m'Lord." The mule-man loved his animals but even he couldn't keep them calm in the echoing, noisy and enclosed chamber where water was to be raised to the defence-ditches. Tyrion went forward and inspected the damage – gazing up into the shaft above he could see how far the water had to move. Not so far – but impossible by hand – it had to be the mules lifting the filled buckets to the next level and then again up another level. He turned to tell Morten about the problem and found him gone from his side. He swore under his breath, assuming the boy had scuttled back up the passage to daylight and cold. But he hadn't – he had moved to the pool and was talking quietly to Sam who, it appeared, had spent some time down here already by the look of his clothes. Morten was looking at the mechanism being used to raise the water, and pointing up the shaft. He reached down and stuck his hand in the water. "NO" Three men shouted at once, Sam grabbed him – too late. Tyrion hurried over – the water was scalding and Morten was cradling his burned hand in obvious pain and shock.

"Then the stupid boy stuck his hand in the water!" Tyrion was stalking around the solar while Sansa gently bound the boy's blistered hand, tutting over his pain and wishing she could hush Tyrion's raging. "It's flowing – like a river." The boy whispered, as if to himself. But he looked up, clearly fighting back tears of pain, to speak directly to Tyrion. "It's flowing." The small man spun on his heel and faced the boy, eye to eye. "So? We know it is. It's some kind of underground river." He couldn't see what he boy was on about. "Our mill wheel was always pouring water on my head, cos the boxes part filled with water and dumped it out near the top." The boy's earnest face was reflected in Tyrion's intent stare. Sam spoke in that patient tone he used to explain anything to the slow witted. Tyrion would have been insulted if he had thought about it. But the words took the sting out of the slight. "If we make better boxes and stick a wheel in the water, the water will push the wheel round and the boxes will raise the water for us." Morten was nodding enthusiastically, until the pain in his hand made him want to cry again.

"All we need is a way to catch the water at the upper level and raise it again – the chamber isn't big enough for a wheel high enough to lift the water in one go. A deep trough with a second wheel should do it. If we attach a mill-gear between the two wheels somehow the bottom wheel can drive both." Tyrion was almost bouncing with enthusiasm but Sam still looked dubious. "Will it be strong enough?" Tyrion paused. "Keep the boxes small and it won't be too heavy to lift."

It took three attempts to make it work. The first ended with the mill-gear breaking so they lightened the load on the upper wheel and the second had the trough filling too fast so they made the upper, smaller, wheel turn faster than the lower one. But in the end they had what looked like the offspring of a mating between a water wheel and a flour mill. But it worked – mostly. At least the mules were no longer needed. And the water was being raised not only faster, but also constantly. That made all the difference. The ditches – if they were ever finished - could be filled in a day with hot, maybe boiling, water. That should help keep the walkers at bay. Or at least force them toward the few defenders. Then they would see if the defences they had in place could protect them. But they would need more than a few brave men with dragonglass weapons to turn back a concerted attack.


End file.
